


Hard to Love

by NimWallace



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 06:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19661914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: Crowley is a demon. He isn't supposed to be loved. He isn't supposed to love anyone else. Aziraphale has other ideas.





	Hard to Love

Hating oneself is truly a cliché.   
Crowley knows this, one of the reasons he _hates_ hating himself, it's such a fucking classic “oh poor me” set up that it makes him angry to think about.

“I hate myself” is something that slips out either ironically, or as a ploy for attention, not when one is genuinely a monster, as he is.   
But, there you have it.   
One could even argue that Crowley _invented_ self-hatred, he was one of the first to feel it, right? He couldn't remember a time he felt secure, holy, _right_. Not even when he was in the highest order of angels—long before he was cast out.   
Being cast out didn't help, though.   
He was a bad healer and now he's a demon, and a part of him _hates_ being a demon. He hates that he is meant to be _evil_ and _sadistic_ and _not_ _feel_ _love_. He would never say it out loud, but he misses helping people, rescuing them. He misses making people feel peace with a wave of his hand. And he hates how he lost all that.   
For the record, he does still feel love. He doesn't even just feel it, he still _senses_ it. When Aziraphale said Tadfield felt loved, he would never admit it, but he felt it too. He felt that aura that radiated off of siblings playing together and old couples holding hands and friends out for drinks. Didn't matter much what type of love it was, he could still sense it.   
That made it all the worse, really. Because he didn't sense _love_ radiating from people when he was around. Aziraphale, sure, but the angel constantly radiated love. It was probably just a side effect, not meant for Crowley to feel.   
He supposed that Aziraphale could feel the love coming from him, and he worried that the angel would take notice, and he'd be revealed. This horrible, self-loathing monster _loved_ him. This unforgivable deserter.   
_Demon. Traitor. Fallen angel.  
_But if Aziraphale did sense it, he didn't mention. Crowley wasn't sure if he was or wasn't grateful for that.   
  
  
Aziraphale, to Crowley's knowledge, did not have any self-hatred issues. He seemed perfectly content with himself, having very few insecurities at all, and all of them being in vain. He was touchy when it came to his weight (though Crowley thought his softness was rather endearing) and also his intelligence (again, Crowley thought he was very clever, and need not worry himself over it). If Aziraphale had a flaw, it was that sometimes, he was a bit of a bastard. Of course, Crowley also loved this about him.   
Seeing his angel, a being who prided himself on Light and Kindness and Good, completely throw away those morals for the sake of a rare book or a good meal was utterly hilarious and charming to him.   
_Hubris.  
_It was all a bit funny, really.   
  
  
Crowley's Garden of Eden was in Central London, in his flat, where he was God.   
He could pick and choose as he pleased, cast plants out of the garden like She cast him out of Heaven, he could grow and destroy and make everything as perfect or flawed as he pleased. _He_ was this garden, this garden was his God-complex, quite literally, and he could be senselessly ruthless and induce fear and rage and _punish_ himself with it. Relive his trauma on a smaller stage.   
He told himself it helped him heal.   
  


_  
_ “Oh, well this is a nice place, my dear,” Aziraphale said, gazing around lazily at Crowley's flat. He was here because it was raining, and their trip to Regent's Park had to be delayed (Aziraphale wanted to look at the statue of Artemis) (no, angels cannot control the weather, or it would always be exactly 21.1 degrees c.) so they had gone to Crowley's flat instead, to chatter and maybe drink and perhaps go out for dinner later.   
Crowley shrugged.   
“'s'a place to stay,” he muttered. It was strange that Aziraphale had never been here, but then, Crowley was always the one chasing him, he supposed. If Aziraphale wanted him around, he simply rang for him to come over.   
“Oh! Are these yours?”   
Aziraphale was suddenly in his garden, stroking the leaves of a pothos as it reached up for the unexpected affection.   
“Gorgeous things,” Aziraphale cooed. “Beautiful.” He looked at Crowley. “You should be kinder to them, my dear. They are doing their best. And look how stunning they are!”   
All the plants in Crowley's flat were now gravitating towards the angel, reaching for his kind touch.   
Crowley suddenly felt a warmth swell in his chest he hadn't expected, a warmth and an ache, and then he could hardly keep his eyes from clouding.   
Aziraphale suddenly put a hand over his chest, startled. He felt, very abruptly, a profound feeling of love in the room.   
“ _Crowley,_ ” he said. “Is that you, dear?”   
Then Crowley was shaking, and sinking, and Aziraphale was catching him, lifting him into his arms as he wept.   
“I'm sorry, angel,” he murmured, gripping Aziraphale's coat. “I-I didn't mean to-to love—“   
“Don't _apologize_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale said in shock. “Surely you can know that I love you too? I daresay, my aura has reeked of it for centuries.” He chuckled softly.   
“That-that was for me?” Crowley said. “I-I just thought that's how angels are. Full of it.”   
Aziraphale gazed down at him tenderly.   
“No, that was for you,” he said. “What's wrong, Crowley?” He brushed the tears from the demon's face. “Hmm?”   
“I'm a demon,” Crowley said. “I don't—I don't deserve _love_.” He sniffled pathetically, then shuddered in anger.   
Aziraphale looked aghast.  
“Not deserving of love?!” he cried. “Of course you are! How could you say such a thing? What nonsense you think sometimes.”   
Fondly, he kissed the top of Crowley's head. The way he said it, with such ease, as if it were the silliest thing in the world, made Crowley feel whole in a sort of way he hadn't before.   
“You're sure? That you love me, I mean,” he said, red and still a bit hazed.   
“I'm quite certain,” Aziraphale said kindly. “And I hope that you will learn to love yourself, too, Crowley. You deserve that.”   
Crowley tucked his head back into the angel's shoulder.   
If Aziraphale could love him, perhaps he wasn't so bad after all.


End file.
